Challenger
by mille libri
Summary: Who was Fenris before Kirkwall, before the ritual? Seven brief vignettes illustrate his past. No pairings.
1. Child

_These are seven 350-word drabbles covering Fenris's life before and after the ritual. I'll post one a day, to keep them separated. These take place in the same universe as _At Your Side_, but the two stories can be read separately._

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><p>"Leto! Our master is calling you."<p>

Hearing the strained tone in his mother's voice, he grimaced. Their master undoubtedly wanted to grill him about his training regimen again—if Leto could prevail over all the other slaves entered in the championship to win the honor of participating in Magister Danarius's ritual, it would be a bright feather in their master's cap. But it was an endless source of argument with Leto's mother. For some reason, she didn't wish him to compete. She'd feel differently if she knew what boon he would ask, though, Leto thought with pride. He was doing this for her, after all, and for his sister Varania. They'd know what it was like to have a man looking out for them.

He finished braiding his long black hair as his mother called for him again. "I'll be there in a moment, Mother," he called back. He flexed his muscles confidently. Few other slaves had his native skill with a sword, and his master had been most generous in his training. He would win, there was no doubt about it.

Descending the stairs from the attic room where they slept, he found his mother busy in the kitchen, preparing the master's midday meal.

"Leto," she said, her green eyes surveying him with exasperated pride. "When will you learn not to keep the master waiting?"

"If he wants me prepared, he must wait as long as that takes," Leto said, shrugging.

"Have you eaten?"

"Not enough." He grinned at her.

She smiled back, dishing up a bowl of hot broth. With a careful glance toward the kitchen door, she scooped up a dumpling and a piece of chicken and added them to the bowl. "You'll need protein to keep your strength up," she whispered. She placed the bowl in front of him, her hand softly touching the top of his head. "Leto." Spoon halfway to his mouth, he looked up at her. "Be careful. You don't know—everything."

"Of course, Mother," he assured her. "I will." But her words were forgotten with the first swallow of the rich broth.


	2. Brother

_Thank you all for the enthusiastic response! _

Leto finished practicing his form, whirling the greatsword above his head and holding it in perfect striking position. This would be fun, he thought.

"You seem very sure of yourself." His sister Varania leaned against the doorway, watching.

He shrugged, putting the sword down, and reached for a towel to wipe the sweat off his face. "I'm very good," he said simply.

"And if you aren't good enough?" She moved toward him, her green eyes hard. "Slaves from all over the Imperium are entering this competition. Many of them are better than you." Varania held up a hand as Leto began to dispute the point. "They _are_, Leto. And when you lose, what will Mother and I have? Shame. And punishment." Her eyes softened. "And grief. Please reconsider. You don't need to do this."

"Varania, you don't have to protect me anymore!" he shouted. "I'm almost 18, not a little boy any longer, and I can take care of myself. As well as you and Mother. When I'm done, you'll be set for life. I promise it," he said softly, putting a hand on his sister's shoulder.

"Leto …"

"When are you going to start believing in me?"

"When are you going to stop acting as though you own yourself?" Varania snapped, and Leto took a step back, his hand dropping from her shoulder in dismay. "You swagger around here as though somehow your skills make you free. But you aren't free, and you're never going to be, and you're only putting yourself—and us—in danger acting this way."

"I'm sorry you feel like that," he said stiffly, turning from her. He picked up the sword, inspecting the blade carefully for any nicks. With difficulty, he kept himself from telling her what he planned to do. Wouldn't she be surprised? She'd be sorry she talked to him like this, that was for sure.

"You never think about anyone but yourself," Varania said. She turned and walked back into the house, her posture practically bristling with her disapproval.

Leto paid her no mind. She'd see soon enough. They all would.


	3. Lover

_Thanks so much for reading, and especially for reviewing! Y'all make my day! (I changed the rating to T for safety.)  
><em>

"How can you suggest such a thing? I'm not that kind of girl." The eager look in Meria's brown eyes gave the lie to her protest, and she didn't move as Leto leaned in, his lips hovering just above hers.

"Tell me to stop, then," he whispered. "It's such a small word, you could say it—if you really want to."

"Leto," she sighed, leaning back against the wall, and he followed her, pressing his body firmly against hers, waiting. "Yes, please," she murmured, a moment before he kissed her.

Meria was hardly the first girl he had dallied with—his rather unusual height and his practiced strength made him fairly sought-after wherever he went—but she was certainly the prettiest. And he was her first, which made her all the more exciting. Her mouth was sweet and tentative beneath his, opening on a soft sigh.

In a swift movement, he lifted her in his arms, not letting go of her mouth, and carried her to the narrow bed, laying her gently down and stepping back to look at her spread out before him. Meria held her arms up to him, and his heart pounded as he lay beside her, his hand finding her waist and moving upward until he cupped the swell of her breast.

"Stop me now," he growled, his heart pounding, "or I can't—"

"Don't stop." She smiled up at him, sure of herself and what she wanted now, and a soft warmth stole over him. He'd never felt quite this way before. He wanted this to be special—not just for her, but for him, as well.

"Meria, I think—" But he stopped himself. He was a slave. He had no right to say that word to her, or to any woman. Perhaps after. When he had won the championship, earned their master that prestige, perhaps then he could ask an extra boon of him, have her given to Magister Danarius to be with him.

It was with that vision of the future before him that he bent his head, claiming her lips again.


	4. Fighter

_Thank you all for reading! I appreciate it!_

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><p>This was harder than he had expected it to be. As Leto lunged and whirled and swung the greatsword, the weight of it as familiar as his own body, doubts began to surface. He remembered his mother's worry, Varania's doubt, the frightened plea in Meria's eyes when he left her. None of them believed he could do this, he realized, ducking the swing of his opponent's blade. None of them believed in him. What if they were right?<p>

He dodged another thrust of the blade, giving a great two-handed swipe of his own that grazed across his opponent's ribs. The other slave, a human man several years older than Leto, was tiring. But Leto was tiring, as well. This was his fifth bout today, with more to come if he was victorious. He side-stepped, feeling the breeze of the other man's missed blow.

Sweat rolled down his face, stinging his eyes, distracting him, and his opponent's blade came dangerously close before he leaped out of the way. He remembered the dancing lessons his mother had given them, he and Varania both stone-faced and resentful, dancing with each other in the master's courtyard. But those lessons had given him grace of movement, a sorely needed edge in battles like these. His mother had forced them through those lessons that he and his sister thought so worthless, knowing a day would come when the children would appreciate what they had learned.

The other fighter—taller, more heavily muscled, with a longer reach—loomed above him. In his eyes glowed the same fierce confidence and determination Leto had begun the day with. Each of them _knew_ he was destined to be champion, but only one of them could be right. Leto thought of the women he loved. Despite their doubts and fears, he would win this for them. They would see.

In a swift, decisive movement, he laid the blunted blade of his sword across his opponent's throat, winning the bout.

Like his mother, he had faith that a day would come when those he loved appreciated what he had done for them.


	5. Champion

_Fascinating - while this is 350 words, FF says it's 366. Have to wonder how the count could be that different! Many thanks to everyone following the story, especially to those of you who have reviewed it. _

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><p>It was over. Panting for breath, Leto staggered away from the fallen body of his last opponent, a bald elf with a wicked pair of daggers. It had been a long bout, both of them exhausted by the long road they had taken to get to this arena, surrounded by screaming spectators. The other elf had put up a good fight, but Leto had retained just enough strength to catch his opponent when distracted. The last thing the bald elf had seen before blackness took him was the pommel of Leto's greatsword striking him between the eyes.<p>

Now the master at arms was coming toward him, lifting Leto's hand in victory, announcing his name and that of his master. Leto heard the cheers, but he paid little attention, straining to see the faces of his mother and sister in the stands.

And then _he_ was there, the Magister himself walking out onto the battleground, his grey robes swishing around him, his grey eyes studying Leto with a gleam that made the young elf wonder, for the first time, if this had been such a good idea.

"Well fought," Magister Danarius said. "You're quite the vicious and determined elf, aren't you?" He chuckled. His fingers reached out, lifting Leto's chin, turning his head this way and that. Leto fought to remain still, to allow the touch, even though the Magister's oily voice and snakelike eyes made his skin crawl. "Tell me, little wolf, is there a particular boon you fought so splendidly for?"

"Freedom for my mother and sister," Leto said, his voice faltering slightly. Danarius's stone-like face made him reluctant to speak, much less to ask the boon.

"Done." Danarius let go of Leto's face, turning aside so the elf could see his mother and Varania standing near the edge of the arena. His mother looked at him sorrowfully, and Varania's green eyes snapped with anger. She held their mother close as the older woman wept.

Didn't they understand? No matter. They were free; that was all that mattered. Or so he told himself as they turned away from him.


	6. Sacrifice

_Thanks to everyone who's following this story, in particular those who have reviewed! This was one of the harder sections to write. I hope I did it justice!_

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><p>He'd felt self-conscious, being stripped down to his smallclothes in preparation for the ritual. Leto was usually proud to display his body, toned and muscular from years of training, but standing in this dimly lit room he felt small, somehow. White-robed attendants took his arms, walking him to the prepared table. Hooded and silent, they bent over him, buckling straps around his wrists and ankles. It occurred to him—a little too late—that he had only the vaguest idea what this ritual was going to entail. He knew that somehow it conferred great power on the fighter, that following it he would be Magister Danarius's personal slave, that it was an extremely expensive and difficult ritual that was performed rarely. But what exactly the ritual would do? Somehow that had been left out of all the descriptions Leto had heard.<p>

Craning his neck, he watched as the attendants drew a strap across his midsection, his skin nearly the same color as the leather. Their hands were cold on his stomach. Leto tried to recall the pride he'd felt, the exultation that he, a mere stripling, had outfought older, more established combatants for this honor. One of the attendants pushed Leto's head back. It landed against the table with a painful thud, no longer cushioned by his glossy black hair. The locks decorated the floor in a shining mass, his hair close-cropped for the ritual. A strap was buckled across his forehead, and Leto felt sudden panic. Why did they need to strap his head down?

He stared up at the ceiling, unable to move. There was little sound in the room, and the waiting was nerve-racking. Finally he heard the scuff of shoes. A voice murmured, "He's ready."

The pain started then. Excruciating pain, as though the needle pierced his heart with each thrust. He screamed until a cloth was thrust into his mouth to quiet him. Desperately trying to keep his mind off the agony, Leto clung to thoughts of his mother and sister, free at last … but soon even they were gone, his mind seared white.


	7. Slave

_Thanks so much for coming along for this ride! I appreciate all your enthusiasm. Thanks as always to my excellent betas, my husband and WellspringCD, who are the greatest confidence-boosters a writer could ask for. _

The slave walked behind his master, concentrating on remaining the precise three steps behind and two to the side that Danarius demanded. His eyes remained fixed on his master's shoulder, alert to the smallest change in Danarius's walk or posture that would indicate an alteration in mood. So he didn't notice the small white-haired elven woman standing in the midst of the crowd and staring at him until he was practically on top of her.

Her hand flew to her mouth in a gasp, her green eyes startled and possibly sad. The slave stole a moment to look her over, wondering if she had known him once, before he became … what he now was. He thought it unlikely. No doubt Danarius had procured him from some seedy orphanage, a place from which no one would miss him. But this woman's eyes were filling with tears. Tears for him? Was it possible? Something in him was touched, something that had turned to stone inside him shifting, leaving a softness he found disquieting.

Ducking his head to avoid the woman's gaze, he started to turn; he must catch up with his master. It was rare enough to be in public without the usual Qunari-style harness and collar—he had no wish to jeopardize the privilege, or court punishment, by seeming inattentive.

"Wait …" the woman said.

"Leave him be, Mother. He deserves no less," hissed another elf, this one younger and red-haired, but with the same green eyes. She put her hands on the first woman's shoulders with a gentleness that belied her tone. Her eyes challenged his for a moment before she hustled the white-haired woman away. He stood, watching curiously as they faded into the crowd. No spark of familiarity had surfaced, no suggestion within him that he shared a history with these women. He could not. If he did—if he allowed himself the luxury of an imagined past—his present would be untenable.

As he stared after them, Danarius's voice came, sharp and displeased. "The boat to Seheron will not wait for your leisure. Come along, Fenris."


End file.
